THENASTYBITS by Anthony Bourdain Read Free Book Online Page A

New York. And his other New York store, the more casual DB Bistro Moderne, is nearly as well thought of. But he does everything right in Vegas and generously lets executive chef Philippe Rispoli take the credit (or the blame). In this case, he should be very proud. Everything about the new Daniel Boulud Brasserie in the Wynn Las Vegas is as good as it could be. Canapes of duck confit and foie gras were what you would expect of a hotshot like Boulud (and somewhat daring in Vegas's 110-degree heat). Sevruga caviar with still-warm blinis was classic, fresh, and paired—in this case—with a very respectable house champagne. In the shadow of a monster-size waterfall/ movie screen and reflecting pool, the food and service stand up effortlessly to what could have been intimidating, even ludicrous, surroundings. Lobster bisque tasted like lobster—a welcome relief from the two lobsters I'd previously seen victimized in the name of the chef's larger Vision. "Vitello tonnato" actually added something to the moribund tuna tartare idea, pairing it with veal sweetbreads. Cod and clam basquaise was robustly flavored, amazingly fresh, and unpretentious, and a lobster salad only reinforced the notion that it takes a great chef to let the ingredients do the talking. Desserts were appropriately demure, the service exactly the right balance of friendly, good-humored, casual, and bloodlessly efficient. They should send Boulud and Rispoli next door to Okada to show them how the big boys do it.

    You have to love a town where you can both smoke and gamble in a pharmacy. That night, temporarily burned out on fine dining and casino hotels, I wheeled the red Caddy into the parking lot of Tiffany's Cafe and White Cross Drugs, just off the skanky end of the Strip. Loaded up with aspirin to soothe my pounding head, I had corned beef hash and eggs at the counter. At Tiffany's counter, you can see the other side of Vegas. There's no glitz or glamour here. Things must have slid pretty far if you're dropping your quarters into a slot machine at an all-night drugstore. I looked carefully at the weathered faces of my fellow customers—half expecting to see Ruhlman. I tried his cell phone. No answer. I trawled the Double Down Saloon, the somewhat downscale Golden Gate, Binion's, and Riviera casinos, looking among the desperate and downtrodden for my friend's face— with no success. I drank a pink, basketball-size Scorpion at local fave, the Fireside Lounge, hoping that Ruhlman might show up for a mound of nachos and a drink with an umbrella in it. But he never did.
    The next day, still unable to reach my fellow doctor of gastronomy, I had a soul-restoring bowl of menudo (tripe soup) at the El Sombrero Cafe on South Main. The perfect antidote to the Casinos of the Damned. I put in a little pool time at the Wynn, watching the hardcore gamblers play blackjack in their bathing suits. I was crossing the casino floor when I felt my elbow enclosed in a steel-like, desperate grip.
    "Money! I need money," said Ruhlman, in a pair of dirty shorts and a Dead Boys T-shirt covered with a mix of frozen daiquiris and deep-fried Twinkie from Fremont Street. "I've been at the Mermaid for the last forty-eight hours," wailed the one-time budding TV star. "I lost everything. Everything! I was jacked up on some hideous sugar high from those Twinkies.
    And the Oreos! They deep-fry Oreos here, Bourdain! I was helpless under their influence. Now give me money. I'm on a roll at the keno. I'm almost back even." Only a week earlier, I'd seen a blazer-clad Ruhlman playing the Simon Cowell role on the PBS competitive cooking series, Cooking Under Fire. Now he was a shell of his former self, unshaven, eyes banging around in his skull like pachinko balls. Frankly, he scared me. I quickly handed him a wad of cash, figuring I could hide it in expenses.
    "All right, Ruhlman. Here's your filthy money," I said. "But when you lose it, get up to my room and shower and shave. I'll lend you a